


Stories

by SpellCleaver



Series: Love Is Not Enough [12]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Artistic License, Childish Thoughts, Cousins, Family, Force Ghosts, Gen, Ghosts, Nieces, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Sisters, Storytelling, aunts, bear with me please, kind of, mild AU, seriously so much about this doesn't make any sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 09:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13004589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellCleaver/pseuds/SpellCleaver
Summary: Little Ryoo Naberrie was barely nine, but she wasn't stupid. And she knew exactly whose funeral she'd attended that day - understood what it meant that that beautiful, kind face was now still and passionless in a way it had never been in life.Her auntie would never wake up and hug her and chatter in her ear ever again.Or: Ryoo Naberrie grows up under the Empire, talking to her aunt's ghost, and driving her relatives mad.





	Stories

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags say, don't judge this too harshly. A lot of things don't make sense about it.

The night air was cold, but that didn't stop the nine year old as she ran through the streets of Theed.

Little Ryoo Naberrie was barely nine, but she wasn't stupid. And she knew exactly whose funeral she'd attended that day - understood what it meant that that beautiful, kind face was now still and passionless in a way it had never been in life.

Her auntie would never wake up and hug her and chatter in her ear _ever_ again.

But. . . she had to wake up, right? She was Aunt Padmé. Death was something that happened far, far away, on the viewscreens showing footage from battles of the Clone Wars. Mama sometimes joked that Grandpa Ruwee would die if he didn't stop eating all those sweets, but it wasn't something that would ever happen. It _definitely_ wasn't something that would ever happen to Aunt Padmé!

Papa was behind her for a little bit when she tried to run away from the long parade behind Aunt Padmé's coffin, and he caught her then and told her not to run away again, that it scared Mama. But Ryoo just waited until he fell asleep that night to sneak out because she _had_ to find Aunt Padmé! She had to wake her up!

There was so much Aunt Padmé needed to do! Mama said she went away to _Corr-uh-sant_ to make peace and settle arguments, and they needed her most of all right now! She'd seen it on the news: there was a man who Papa said was _Chan-sell-or Pal-pah-teen_ even though he looked too wrinkly to be him, and his podium had been flying above everyone else and there was a lot of shouting and arguing and clapping and Aunt Padmé needed to be here to stop them shouting!

There was no one in the streets, which Ryoo was happy for because otherwise the adults would run after her and make her go home. She didn't want to go home. She wanted to talk to Aunt Padmé.

Aunt Padmé was sleeping in a big stone room now. It was easy to slip inside it, and she found herself face to face with a large stained glass window of a woman who looked like Aunt Padmé, but not really. She looked very sad in the window, and Ryoo remembered her aunt being cheerful and happy; she would tickle her and Pooja, kiss their cheeks, play 'it' with them. In the middle of the room there was a big rock in the shape of a rectangle, about the same size Aunt Padmé had been. The sides were covered in pretty carvings of flowers.

They looked like ryoo flowers. . .

Idly, Ryoo took off the little felt bracelet on her right wrist and held it up to the stone. It was dark in here, but she could almost see how alike the carvings and the decorative flowers on her bracelet looked, with the shape of the petals and stuff. . .

She gasped as she felt a warm breeze brush past her - it smelt almost like. . .

A violent chill ran through her before she finished the thought. She dropped the bracelet, and looked around.

It was very cold in here.

She shivered, cast one backwards look at the sad woman in the window again, then ran out. She would come back and wake up Aunt Padmé tomorrow.

After all, people were supposed to sleep at night, anyway, weren't they?

She didn't stay long enough to see two moonlight-pale, transparent hands lift the bracelet from its bed in the shadows and place it atop the coffin, like a childish facsimile of a queen's crown.

* * *

In the morning, Mama and Papa didn't notice that Ryoo had snuck out last night, but Mama did notice that her bracelet was missing and ordered her to look for it. Ryoo did; she used it as an excuse to run back to Aunt Padmé.

She should be awake by now, shouldn't she?

And true, Ryoo hadn't actually _seen_ her sleeping back there, but. . . it was dark! And Aunt Padmé would be up and about, so she wouldn't need to look for her sleeping body anyway, would she?

She had to wait for a bunch of people to leave the building first, as they all seemed to want to get inside and give Aunt Padmé flowers. There was nothing strange about that; Ryoo had seen Very Important People give Aunt Padmé flowers at Very Important Events before. But all these people were crying.

Why were they crying? Why didn't they just help her wake Aunt Padmé up?

She slipped inside once they went away, and gazed in awe at the woman in the window. Now it was daytime, she could see all the pretty colours of the glass: the blue dress, the white flowers, the gold-ish yellow headdress, and she stared at it in wonder for a few moments before turning back to the stone.

Where was Aunt Padmé? And where was her bracelet?

Frowning, Ryoo stared at where she'd dropped it last night. It wasn't there! She turned round in a circle, staring. Where was it?

Something caught her eye. There! It was sitting on top of the carving - the one Mama said looked a lot like a _fleur de lis_ flower - on the top of the stone!

She stood up on tippy-toes to try and reach it, and managed to bat it onto the floor, where it rolled off somewhere. She scampered after it.

But just when her fingers touched it, she saw a silver light in the corner of her eye and she whirled, dropping her bracelet _again_.

But it didn't matter.

Because there was her auntie, standing there smiling and awake and she was back she was back she was back!

"Aunt Padmé!" Ryoo shouted, running forwards. Her bracelet was instantly forgotten. She made to throw her arms round her auntie, but they went right through her. Ryoo tumbled to the ground.

Getting up, she frowned, and peered up at the woman. She wasn't just silver, but she was transparent too. . .?

"Why-" she began, but then decided it didn't matter. She bounded to her feet again. "Aunt Padmé! You're back! Good, you need to come home right now, Mama's been really sad and you need to make it better for her! C'mon, auntie, we need you!"

Aunt Padmé knelt down in front of her, looking her straight in the eye. Ryoo's heart plummeted. Nothing good ever happened when adults did that.

And Aunt Padmé was crying, too. She had wet tears leaking down her cheeks, silver on silver; she dazzled with it. 

_ A ghost _ , Ryoo realised belatedly. _Aunt Padmé's a ghost._

"Hello, Ryoo," the crying woman whispered.

* * *

Aunt Padmé was dead. Aunt Padmé was dead, but she could come back and talk to them as a ghost, even if she couldn't _man-i-fest_ anywhere except her _tomb_ \- Ryoo swallowed at the thought - at the moment.

Naturally, she ran home to tell everyone.

"Mama! Papa!" she shouted. "I saw Aunt Padmé!"

Mama burst into tears. Ryoo immediately wanted to cry too; Mama wasn't supposed to cry! She was Mama!

It was Papa who looked between them sadly, then herded her out of the kitchen with a firm hand on her shoulder and a "That's nice, dear."

* * *

Pooja Naberrie would be the first person to call her older sister a dreamer.

It had been less. . . _noticeable_. . . when they were younger. They were children after all: imagination was an expectation, even if Ryoo's had always been a little bit. . . overactive. Especially in regards to their deceased (and now censored) Aunt Padmé; eventually Ryoo had stopped talking about how she'd spoken to her ghost, after she'd realised how much any mention of her upset their mother, but she still talked about her to Pooja, in hushed, late night discussions that Pooja was only half-awake for.

Pooja had always wondered if her sister had been intentionally pulling her leg about it; it was certainly common practice for older siblings to pull the wool over their younger siblings' eyes and trick them into believing things that everyone else knew weren't true. But her thoughts always came back to one thing: the passion and fervour Ryoo had always had as she conducted the discussions. How excited she'd seemed.

Pooja had always been envious of her for it.

At first, envious because Ryoo could speak to Aunt Padmé and Pooja couldn't.

Later, envious because Ryoo had such a vivid imagination that she'd convinced herself that their Aunt Padmé was really there, wasn't gone, and because it provided a chance to escape some of the horrors the Empire dished out.

Years passed, until one day Pooja realised that she no longer believed her sister's stories - no longer sat enraptured as she recounted them, or smiled one of her secret smiles at something their aunt had said or done. Ryoo seemed to realise it too.

The storytelling stopped.

Their educations diverged. Pooja went into politics - "Like Aunt Padmé," Ryoo had commented when she'd first announced her intentions; Pooja hadn't quite been able to avoid her sister's perceptive stare, any more than she could her mother's pale face - and Ryoo went into the arts. Writing, painting, acting, filming. It didn't matter to her, so long as she was telling a story.

Pooja envied her for that freedom of expression she got, but she didn't begrudge her sister her choices. If anyone had the imagination to go far in those businesses, it was Ryoo.

But what really alarmed Pooja (and everyone else in their family) was Ryoo's frankness. She'd mastered some tact as a child, but ultimately Ryoo had always told it to you straight, never lied about what was on her mind. And when she met some people who'd believed in the tarnishing of Padmé Amidala's image. . . Well. Ryoo hadn't been too happy with that.

Pooja knew her sister understood censorship - how could she not, as a storyteller? - but she didn't understand the lengths the Empire was willing to go to silence those who preached the wrong message. Pooja, a politician, used to coaching her words and spinning them into something more amiable, feared for her sister's life. Her brashness could get her killed.

But ultimately, no. No action was taken. The Empire didn't deem the artistic niece of a long-dead adversary to be a threat.

Pooja envied her that, too.

* * *

Ryoo blinked at the woman in front of her. She was used to talking with Aunt Padmé fairly regularly, and the topics ranged wildly, it was true, but. . . This seemed a little random.

"What?" she asked again.

Padmé smiled. Ryoo could tell the difference between her smiles now - this one had a tinge of sadness to it, as well as hope, and _love_. Endless, all-encompassing love. Not just for Ryoo, or even Pooja - no, there was someone else involved here as well.

"When your sister is chosen to be the Senator of Naboo," she said slowly, meaningfully, "tell her to seek out and befriend Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. Her. . . father. . . was an old friend of mine." Her smile widened, and Ryoo thought there was the glimmer of tears in her eyes before she blinked them back. "I'm sure they'll get along splendidly."

Ryoo didn't understand it.

But she passed the message along anyway.

* * *

It was several years and many stringent Imperial decrees later that Padmé deigned to revisit. Ryoo was just packing up her painting supplies when she felt the warm, summery breeze that always alerted her to her aunt's presence. It smelled like Rominaria flowers.

Ryoo forced a smile onto her lips as she looked at her aunt. It had been a hard year, what with Imperial laws tightening tenfold and the dissolution of the Senate, but she'd be damned if she didn't treat her long dead aunt with the respect she deserved. Even if she never visited as often as she did when Ryoo was a child.

"Aunt Padmé," she greeted. Padmé smiled, but looked faintly harried, which puzzled Ryoo. How could a ghost be harried?

"I'm afraid I can't stay long, flower," she said, slipping into the age-old nickname Ryoo once bore. "And I'm not allowed to tell you much. But I can tell you this."

Ryoo crammed the questions that statement invoked - _What do you mean, 'aren't allowed'? Why can't you stay long? Who controls you?_ \- down, and instead asked, "What is it?"

Padmé had never looked quite so grave. "There is a boy, in the world," she began slowly. "Or rather, not a boy anymore. Nineteen. Young, but not _that_ young." She smiled - this one was bitter. "Not young enough to be unnoticeable." Ryoo's questions began to rise again; Padmé quelled them with, "His name is Luke Skywalker."

Ryoo's words died in her throat. "Oh." A pause. "Is he-"

"Yes." The word was whispered. "He's Anakin's son." A beat, then- "And mine."

Ryoo's heart stuttered. _But you were pregnant at your funeral. . ._

"Oh," was all she said.

"Yes," Padmé said softly. "He's my son. The twins survived my death. They were raised separated, because no one could know, but someone living _has_ to know, so I'm telling you now. Because you're the only one who can hear me, and there will come a day when everyone will know Luke's name. And someone has to know the truth."

Padmé was crying now. "He's a good boy," she whispered. "He's a good boy, and his sister - whom I cannot speak of right now, but who you'll know soon enough - is a good girl too. They're not the terrorists the media will try to paint them as."

"Terrorists," Ryoo murmured. "Sister?"

A memory resurfaced: a memory of a Princess from Alderaan, a recommendation that Pooja befriend her and a _"her father was an old friend of mine_."

"Oh," Ryoo said again, even though Padmé was already gone.

* * *

It was the next day that the name of the pilot who destroyed the Death Star was released, along with his astronomical bounty. And Ryoo didn't need to worry about containing her gasp of shock when the name _Luke Skywalker_ blinked up at her from the viewscreen - her mother, father, sister and grandparents gasped along with her.

"Uncle Ani. . ." Pooja breathed, diplomacy and tactical silences forgotten in the wake of the surprise.

Her mother and father exchanged looks. "You don't think. . ."

Her mother looked at Ryoo, then the screen. Ryoo did the same, where scrolling text described his crimes: succeeding in shooting at an impossible target and blowing up an armoured space station.

_ An impossible target. . . _

_ An impossible target. . .  _

No one was associated with the impossible more than the Jedi were - had been.

"Yes," her mother replied, "I do."

* * *

It was announced that the insurrectionists Princess Leia Organa and Commander Luke Skywalker were twins.

Sola Naberrie cried. Jobal and Ruwee Naberrie gaped in shock. Darred Janren Naberrie seemed frozen, unable to move. They all knew what this meant.

Later that day, Pooja approached Ryoo. "What else has Aunt Padmé told you?" she asked.

* * *

The Rebellion was coming to Naboo, Padmé told Ryoo. They were coming to visit Queen Soruna, to ask for her support, and they were sending Luke and Leia as part of an envoy to do it.

This time, Padmé said it to Pooja as well. She said it to both of them at the same time - now that the truth was out, and Pooja was starting to believe it again, she could appear to her fully.

"My sister still doesn't fully believe in it," Padmé explained, "not in _this_ , or in Luke and Leia. I can't materialise in front of her until she's rearranged it into her reality."

"I'm going to ask the Queen if she can arrange a meeting with them," Pooja told the ghost. "Can I tell her the truth, or even that we suspect it's the truth?"

Padmé shrugged. "You can tell whoever you want." She smiled at Ryoo. "It's your truth now to tell."

* * *

Padmé's son had her generosity and her faith, but Uncle Ani's chin and hair and eyes. Padmé's daughter had her hair and eyes and chin, but Uncle Ani's fire and spirit and conviction. 

Ryoo got déjà vu staring at them.

"Leia!" Pooja gasped the moment the pair entered the room, and then there was a whirl of laughter and hugs and glee.

Amid the chaos, Ryoo studied the boy - _no_ , she thought, remembering Padmé's words, _he's a man by now, surely_ \- standing awkwardly to the side.

He noticed her gaze, and grinned at her, offering a hand. "I'm Luke Skywalker."

She took it. "Ryoo Naberrie."

"Ryoo, this is Leia," Pooja cut in, and Leia offered her a hand. Ryoo was aware of Pooja and Luke introducing themselves to each other as well, but Ryoo found herself looking at Leia and blinking rapidly. _Shiraya's word, they look so similar._ She half expected Leia to dissolve into transparent moonlight if she looked too hard.

It was. . . unsettling. . . seeing her aunt's face so many years younger.

"What is it?" Leia asked, picking up on her pensive mood.

Ryoo shot a desperate look at Pooja, but her sister shook her head.

"Oh no, Ryoo," she laughed. " _You're_ the storyteller here. This story is _yours_."

She told it.


End file.
